It was Tolstoy and Dostoyewsky who compelled some of us to see our own guilt, and they, not the Russian Church, united our voices with those of the Russian people in the chief note of their Mass, "Lord have mercy! O Lord have mercy!" The Russian peasant always knew that men are stricken by crime as by a disease; and when he passed those consigned to prison, he cried out incessantly: "Lord have mercy! O Lord have mercy!" And for the man who escaped, he never hunted with the bloodhound's passion, as we do; he put a crust of bread upon the window, to help him on his way. It was news to the secretary that Judge Lindsay, the "Kid's Judge," as he is affectionately called, received his inspiration from Tolstoy, and that the tendency to change our prisons into Social Clinics was originally suggested by Dostoyewsky, a name quite unfamiliar to him. The Herr Director spoke of the inadequacy of these same Russians when they try to put their theories into practice, and what prosaic, impossible preachers they make. To which I replied that their failures are due to their preponderance of soul and their lack of the practical spirit with which we are so super-abundantly endowed. The secretary could scarcely believe that his practical, matter-of-fact, card-indexed, efficient-from-top-to-bottom, result-bringing, tabulated, report-making, American Y. M. C. A. might be benefited by an infusion of Russian Soul. He almost doubted that the delving miners whom we saw coming home from the mines, sooty and begrimed, possessed that soul. Nor did the Herr Director realize that all his Germanic searching and classifying, all his minute, painstaking investigation into the innermost of everything, left him where the Russian had long ago preceded him: in the holy presence of the unknowable, unsearchable wisdom of God. The American has great reverence for results, and it is hard for him to be patient with failure. The German respects authority, and has scant respect for the individual. The Russian respects man and knows what it means to love him in his weakness, and to be humble in the presence of another's failure. I had a long, intimate talk with my friend the priest, who has never spent a happy day since he has been in America which he hates, or rather, despises, and so hurts me more than he knows.